


Hollow Things

by CourierNinetyTwo



Category: RWBY
Genre: F/F, F/M, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-04 03:16:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6639052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CourierNinetyTwo/pseuds/CourierNinetyTwo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Raven makes a promise to Summer that is almost impossible to keep. [This story starts several years before Volume 1 and has spoilers up to the end of Volume 3. All character deaths are canonical.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hollow Things

Even a decade later, there’s still no explanation for how Summer came to you in that place.

Your scroll went idle hours ago, giving up on connecting to whatever static the dwindling boundary stations could force from Dust generators two decades out of date. The only reason the village chief even knew there were Grimm more than a mountain range away was because of the blood an Ursa Major and its sleuth had dragged over stone and earth for miles, and you nearly have to put your nose to the ground to track the copper-colored flakes once the gore dries to dribs and drabs. She appears after you slog through the damp pit of their lair, resting against a wizened tree as if half-asleep.

You can’t remember a day when Summer didn’t look at peace, when that veil of serenity was torn away. At times her smile was a touch nervous, rising with the flash of a camera or too much noise in a crowded place, but it never reached the rest of her face, those silver eyes that stripped you down to your marrow, to the weakest part of your heart.

Even after one of them was torn from the socket by a Beowulf.

The eye that remained only became twice as bright in the aftermath, a circle of moonlight to rival the sun. There’s an irony in it, you know, considering her legacy, except it’s not a simple trick of anatomy that stops monsters in their tracks, but a force of will most humans simply don’t possess.

That Beowulf never would have gotten half as close if Summer wasn’t protecting Taiyang from a sudden storm of Nevermore feathers. If you and Qrow hadn’t insisted in scouting ahead, bickering with him about getting bloodstains out of leather or some other nonsense when you heard a scream from a quarter mile back, that awful tearing sound that echoed in your ears for days.

She was never angry with you for it, which was maddening in and of itself.

“How the hell did you track me down?”  The question is a hoarse, wretched thing; your voice goes unused for weeks in the backwilds, and you’ve been nigh-feral this last year. “I didn’t even tell Tai which kingdom I was hunting in this time.”

Summer’s unscarred eye opens, staring at you for a moment past the red-lined boundary of her cloak. The other is sealed shut by a patch of ragged tissue, one you know the edges of from kissing her brow while she slept. Her smile provokes a shiver; that she still looks at you with such familiarity, the warmth of love neither you nor your brother deserved, is the same as being struck on the skull and stripped of all reason.

You tremble like a colt in the knees as she approaches, one hand on the hilt of your sword as if there’s any reason to draw it. Habit betrays you, proves your cowardice in a way words never could.

She’s just as beautiful as the day you two met, but your wild roots have come through again and there’s nothing to stifle the rampant growth.

“Tai doesn’t know I’m here.” Her voice, at least, hasn’t changed; it flows smooth as water, low and even. “But I had to see you, no matter what it took.”

“Well, you found me.” By whatever impossible method; even an Aura trace couldn’t be done from halfway across the continent.

“Still whole, if not hale.” Summer’s teasing little lilt makes her gaze sparkle, breathing warmth past the cold press of an autumn night. “You’ll be nothing but bones by winter if you don’t start eating more, Raven.”

Your hunting license has nearly a hundred thousand Lien on it now, but money didn’t mean a damn thing without a place to spend it. Foraging was more reliable than trading a night’s killing for broth and scraps. “Is that what you came here for? To drag me home for dinner?”

“I would give anything for that to be the reason.” Regret tinges every syllable, and for a moment, Summer refuses to look you directly in the face. “But there’s something I have to ask of you.”

You almost spit in surprise. “A favor? What could possibly be worth crawling out to this wasteland to find me?”

“Ruby.” Summer says her daughter’s name like a prayer, in a way you could never make Yang’s sound. That instinct for motherhood everyone promised would come had never risen in your breast; if anything, giving birth crushed something in your heart that refused to become whole again. “Ruby is the reason.”

It seems cruel, if there’s something you can do for her child but not your own. “Ruby’s barely walking. Don’t tell me she’s gotten into trouble already.”

You say it to make her laugh, but Summer’s smile fades completely. “Not yet. But the time will come, and the only thing I can do is delay the inevitable.”

“You’re speaking fucking riddles again.” Every so often, Summer would seem taken by a priest’s fervor, declaring things about the world as if she saw past a veil no one else was privy to. Unease roils in your gut, as if there’s a sword hanging from a chain above both of you, somewhere in the sky.

A spear would be more apt, maybe.

“Is that so? You know what I am, Raven.” Summer holds up two fingers, crossing one over the other. “The place where two bloodlines crossed, ones that were never meant to. Silver-eyed warriors don’t become Maidens, because it means a power that can destroy kingdoms. That’s why Mantle is just rubble now.”

“You never destroyed anything. Hell, you kept it hidden all through school.” At least until senior year, when the entire team was dragged in front of Ozpin and sworn to secrecy, forced to lie every time other hunters asked the wrong questions.

“Ruby has my eyes.” The declaration snaps out of Summer’s throat, harsher than you’ve heard her speak to you in years. “And soon she’ll have the rest, Raven. Someone will notice, and someone will kill her because she’s too young to fight back.”

Now you’re wondering if she caught some kind of fever climbing these mountains. “Spirits fucking cross me, Summer, you’d have to die for that to happen.”

She nods. “And I will, soon enough.”

“What?” Holding the distance between you two is impossible now; it shatters, you grab her shoulders, shake them. “Are you sick? What happened?”

“No, I’m not sick.” Touching her was a mistake; you’d managed to forget what it felt like, and now all that work is undone. “I’m going to the old house again.”

The house was in the deepest part of the forest on Patch, far from the coast where the main village was clustered, living off fish and whatever trade came from the mainland. No one knew it existed at all until that break between first and second year at Beacon, when Tai talked the team into coming to the island for a camping trip. Qrow brought a handle of something that burned down your throat with every sip, and by the time midnight rolled around the campfire, everyone was raucously drunk. Eventually you lured Tai into your sleeping bag, throwing a possessive arm over his hip, and Qrow finished off the jug by himself, his slurred lullaby carrying you to sleep.

You woke up to Summer covered in blood.

She insisted she was fine, that none of it was hers, but the words came out tight as a bowstring. There had been a scream in the middle of the night, Summer said, and she left to find the source, spear in hand despite her staggering steps. In the broken remnants of a house, scarred by fire, there was a girl dying on the floor, torn apart by a monster unseen. With a shattered Aura, she simply bled and bled, yet somehow found the strength to grab Summer and pull her close.

 _You._ The girl whispered on her dying breath, eyes ripe as rotten fruit, about to burst. _It belongs to you now._

While hungover and chasing away panic, you followed Summer back to the house, but in the morning light there was no body to be found, only blood so old it was encrusted an inch thick across the floor. You vomited just outside its foundation, and so did Qrow less than a minute after. It had nothing to do with the alcohol; everything felt _wrong_ there, like each step you took was violating something sacred, spitting on an ancient grave. Just thinking of it now puts a sour taste on the back of your tongue, bile coating thick on the inside of your throat.

That blood was the only proof anything had happened at all, until Summer cast fire from her hands for the first time, urged the earth to bloom in the middle of winter in a riot of color. She was already a rising legend at Beacon, and proof of such miracles would have traveled fast, if everyone hadn’t their tongues until that last year. Until Qrow told Ozpin to save his own skin from being expelled, anyway, and that was the first time you really ever hated your brother.

But in this moment, hate doesn’t grip you – only fear.

“What does that have to do with you dying?” The house was dark and horrible, but it hadn’t done any of them harm.

“Because there’s something waiting for me there.” Dark brows knit together for a moment in contemplation. “I can feel it pulling in my chest, like I’m already–”

You grip Summer’s shoulders tight enough to bruise, cutting her off. “Then _don’t_ go there. Why would you march off to die?”

“If I don’t, it will find me instead. Track me back to Patch, to Tai, Yang, Ruby. Waiting for me to leave so it can take them first.” Exhaling through clenched teeth, she shudders. “The monsters really do get smarter as they age.”

“Then I’m coming with you.” You spit it out, a defiant fire blazing in your chest. “It won’t be expecting us both.”

“Raven, you’re not listening to me.” Both of her hands cup your face, and that fire quiets, leaving behind a brutal ache. “That’s not the important part.”

Your fingers slip down over her shoulders, tracing the soft white fabric of the cloak. Silfnir is collapsed against Summer’s back like a second spine, the haft of the spear cold and rigid. “Then what is?”

What could matter more than her dying? To have Summer so close again, only to be stolen away right after, is no less than you deserve for leaving over and over and over, but you still want to fight it. You can’t not.

“In every Maiden’s last breath, a choice is made. We pick our heirs.” She hesitates, guilt wrenching her expression in two. “I need you to take the power from me. I need you to carry it until Ruby is strong enough to be a Maiden too.”

There’s no way. “I’m not–”

“It’s not about being worthy, Raven, no matter how much we like to think so. You’re still young enough, and that’s all the reckoning will pay attention to.”

“You promised you’d take care of Yang.” Your face is wet, eyes stinging. It’s been years since you wept, and you didn’t even feel it start; one deep breath, and that barrier inside crumbled to pieces. “She needs you.”

“I don’t want to leave her, Raven. I love her like my own blood.” Summer shakes her head, and tears flash at the edge of silver. “Yang’s so kind, she’s so strong. When they play together, she acts like Ruby’s little guardian. But Tai’s a wonderful father, he’ll raise them right.”

“Tai will break without you.” You whisper the words, as if saying it aloud will make it true. “He loves you more than anyone.”

“He loves you too.” She doesn’t sound bitter, but you’re condemned by the words anyway. “I know you never quite believed it. That one day he’d wake up and not want you there, but it’s not true. When you left, part of his world went away. But Tai will survive this too. For them, he will.”

For a split second, you consider going back, only to realize that when Summer gives this power to you, you’re the new target. Whatever this monster is will come for you, come for them. And giving it to Ruby means–

“I’ll have to die.” Falling on your sword would be the most simple way. It’s not as if you haven’t considered it before. “When she’s old enough.”

A sob catches in Summer’s throat, choking her. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry to ask this of you.”

“It’s okay.” Really, it is, and you catch yourself smiling. “It’s the only way I’ll ever get to see you again.”

And maybe then, this unstoppable urge to move from place to place will die too. You can stop running.

One hand falls lower, fingers brushing the beads draped around your throat. “You’re awful. I’ve missed you so much.”

“How will I know when the time is right?” The thought of ruining this after she’s gone, when there’s no way to ever ask again, fills you with dread.

“The one behind this…I don’t know her name, but you will.” She says it with all the force of a prophecy, twisted up in the threads of fate. “Ruby has to be exactly like I am in order to defeat her. Just give Ruby a few years of being a child, then you can–maybe then, there will be another way for her to take the power from you.”

It seems like a foolish thing to wish for. “Do you really think so?”

She doesn’t answer that. Instead Summer’s gaze breaks from yours, focusing on something that only she can see. “There’s one more thing.”

You almost don’t want to ask, as if that would stop all this in place, lock you both in a purgatory that never goes forward. “What?”

“You can’t go to my funeral.” Summer says softly.

That drives the sting deeper, leaves poison seeping into your gut. “Why the hell not?”

“Because Qrow is Ozpin’s man, and he’s been watching over me for years. That’s what they do with Maidens.” Watching – not helping. “At the funeral, he’ll be looking for it in Ruby’s eyes, in Yang’s. If you’re there, he might guess the truth.”

But if you never show up, no one will know you were aware of Summer’s passing at all, that there was any conspiracy behind this. “You don’t trust him.”

“I can’t. I’m sorry, I know he’s your brother–”

Now you laugh, a dry sound low in your throat. “I meant Ozpin. I don’t tell Qrow anything I don’t expect him to spit out over a bar counter three cups in someday.”

“I trust his knowledge, but not always his motives. Ruby should grow up like any other girl, not like she has no other choice but to be a hero.” A destiny, inescapable. “Do you have any more questions, Raven?”

Because you’re both running out of time. “How do you know this is going to work?”

“A wizard told me.” She says, then huffs like it’s some huge cosmic joke.

Your eyes narrow, anger sparked despite yourself. “Summer.”

“I’m sorry.” There’s a light tug on the necklace around your throat, and she draws you into a kiss, the first you’ve had in years. “I never wanted to ask this of you.”

And yet she has, and there’s no way to see it undone.

“Can we–” It’s selfish, so selfish, but you’ll never have the chance to ask again. Trying to get the words out is like swallowing past a stack of stones, gathered thick and heavy in your throat. “–be together? One more time.”

“Oh.” Something glints in those sacred eyes before she laughs, the sound sweet as birdsong. For a moment, it’s the Summer Rose that you remember from the very beginning; the first woman you ever touched, unburdened by fate. “Of course we can.”

Maybe it’s a mercy, that your last memory of Summer is one where she’s alive and smiling, cloak pristine and white. Her fingers are warm, every kiss sweet, and by the end, you’ve almost forgotten that it will ever be any other way.

–

You’re cursing out a rocky path that switchbacks around a mountain, boots packed with early snow, when you feel Summer die.

There’s no time to process the loss when _something_ is suddenly impaling your veins with molten lead, and no warning could ever have prepared you for the pain. You scream until there’s no sound left in vocal cords drawn tight and raw, but it echoes in an agonized chorus off the mountains long after you’ve been rendered mute. Even breathing hurts, like shards of glass are scraping out the inside of your lungs, and some point, you end up on your knees, clawing at the earth as if it would swallow you up, allow some escape.

Yet it’s only earth under your nails. All the snow that was in sight is gone now, cleaved from the mountainside like foam flensed away by a blade. Loam crumbles under both hands as you clench them into fists, but the rage also summons something hot and crackling, brambles and thorns that arise out of slumbering roots. They’re grotesque, unnatural, and a blood-red fire ignites behind your eyes, setting the dark brush ablaze.

“Summer.” The flames flicker out and die with the whisper of her name, torn from your scorched throat. “I love you so much.”

It’s not enough. You rarely said the words in the first place, because they always seemed placating in the place of action. Now the syllables are just empty space in some backend of the world, _useless_. For a moment, there’s the temptation to crawl under the ashes you’ve just made, curl up there and sleep until something fills the hole that’s just been torn in your chest, but nothing ever will. Nothing could replace her in your heart, even if a fragment of what she was now pulses through your blood like electricity. Everything is red and raw and hot, trying to surge past your skin and spend itself, but you swallow it back, try to breathe again.

When your fingers relax, crushed rose petals are plastered to the center of each palm. They’re fresh, flush with color and still alive by a thread, but a gust of frozen wind threatens to sweep them away. A few escape, the rest cupped between both your hands  like a wounded bird, protecting rather than pressing in. You lean down, drawing in the scent, and it’s her. Just like you remember, earthy and sweet. Then the tears come, spilling with all the force of a flood, and you collapse again, hunched over and howling. It could cause a landslide for all you care, wiping out the villages below; the world can bleed for taking Summer from you.

But it doesn’t. No one will ever know what you’ve both given up.

Time falls away uncounted before you find your feet. The petals disappear in pinpricks of crimson light, but the fragrance lingers on your gloves, gentle yet constant. This time when you flex your fingers, a portal tears into the air, spreading outward in waves of deep red. Dropping down to the bottom of the mountain range was a simple enough task, but when you clench your fist, the image shifts, stretching out farther and farther, all the way to Vale’s border. That’s countless miles from here, leagues farther than you’ve ever jumped in one go, but a boundless energy answers your Semblance’s call, and that crimson veil falls across your vision again.

Stepping through to the other side feels like walking through a curtain of water. It’s cold, but familiar. When the world becomes real again, the first thing you do is break into a run. Away from Patch, from anyone who knows your name.

You don’t stop for years.

–

Winter in Mistral is nothing short of fucking miserable.

Incessant wind sweeps through the cliffs and valleys day in and day out, bringing a horrible whistling that made sleeping outdoors an exercise in insanity, and even the reinforced walls in most villages can’t mute the noise entirely. In the city, the urban sprawl drowns the constant droning with sound of its own making, but you’re far from any sort of civilization. This contract is from a nameless nomad trap that had already lost four villagers to a faint glow in the dark, which already says they have more endurance for the cold than any sort of sense.

Most hunters called them _fairylights_ or _will o’wisps_ , but the light belongs to a certain type of insect Grimm that was exceedingly rare. Sleeping deep inside hollow trees, it was only in certain seasons – or weather conditions, or cycle of the damn moon, no one really knew – that they took flight, seeking out nearby packs of larger Grimm. Their glow could look like an inviting torch or even Dust to the desperate wanderer, which meant settlers and scouts were most susceptible, but this village had already lost four people to the thrice-damned things, and you can’t figure out why they keep falling for it. Nonetheless, the promise of a week’s meals and a quiet room to yourself is too much to pass up in return for swatting a few bugs.

It’s not until you’re at the top of the cliff that you understand what the village head meant by the ‘old quarry’. A huge pit is carved a hundred feet deep into raw limestone, and within it the mouths of half a dozen tunnels can be seen, all pitch-black. The quarry’s heyday is long over, carts rusted in place along cracked and warped tracks, the scaffolding that once supported ramps and ladders little more than a molding, fractured skeleton, and not a living soul is in sight. The place wasn’t Schnee-owned, surprisingly; Merlot Industries wasn’t a name that had reached your ears since you were at Signal, before the Dust monopoly Atlas-side became an inescapable truth.

A quick portal takes you to the bottom of the quarry, and somehow it’s even colder down here, the thick black cloak swathed around your shoulders doing nothing to ward off the winter chill. With sword drawn and eyes closed, you focus for any signs of life, in case the last to be lost – the third teenage girl of the lot – still has any fraction of Aura not yet extinguished. For a long moment, there’s nothing, but right before you open your eyes, something flickers across the boundary of your senses, fragile and fleeting. It’s hard to think after two days in a Grimm-infested mine that anyone would be alive, but more bizarre things had happened; the body could survive all kinds of torture that would be more merciful to die to, after all.

Surprisingly, the tunnel you choose seems to lack any Grimm at all, even if there’s the occasional scrape on stone that’s impossible to pinpoint a source for. When it starts to widen into natural caves, though, some primal instinct scratches along the nape of your neck, giving off a silent warning.  Any miner with sense, no matter how long ago, would have stopped digging the second they discovered what was unmistakably a nest, yet the sharp cuts of manmade tools flowed seamlessly into the jagged boundaries of the cave, surging forward without any awareness of the risk. What could be worth losing an entire quarry to a wave of Grimm?

 _Greedy idiots._ You don’t voice the thought aloud, knowing that familiar and human sound could rouse whatever was slumbering within.

Most Grimm didn’t sleep, per se, but plenty had the strange habit of going utterly still in the dark, lying in wait with red eyes open for hours on end, like they were listening for someone’s call. Your fingers tense around the hilt of Valaskjálf when a glow beckons around the curve of one tunnel, but it’s a steady, dull sort of light, rather than the bright and tempting lure you were looking for. Its strange purple hue is like nothing you’ve ever seen, the edges hard and crystalline.

On closer inspection, the brackish violet is full of splotchy red and dying blue shades, mixed up in one another. By all other signs, it has to be Dust, but a hybrid color in nature was impossible. Different types had to be cut and purified before being fused together, or anyone who used it was risking a horrific explosion when the combination fell out of balance. A spark of Aura from your fingertips makes the crystals light like coals, though, and nothing but Dust reacted in such a way to the presence of a soul.

Why the miners might have kept digging makes a little more sense now, but the danger was still outrageous. Who knew how volatile this type could be if weaponized, and if the dead and empty quarry surrounding you is any indication, no one had survived the discovery and shared it with the world. Shaking your head, you stand straight and round the corner, wanting this hunt over sooner rather than later.

What you find is nothing short of incredible.

The narrow tunnel widens into an absolutely massive cavern, and a forest of those crystals sprout from the floor and climb the walls, embedded all the way to the ceiling, where violet shards jut downward, long as javelins. But in the center of it all is a clean circle of stone, too smooth to be natural, leading up to an uneven flight of steps, dark as obsidian. The glow cast upon it by the Dust is eerie, as if the light is slowly being drained away, but at the top of the stairs is a woman kneeling, her fingers gripping the hem of a pitch-back robe.

A chorus of foreign voices, hundreds strong, suddenly scream from the inside of your skull at the sight, so loud that all you can see is a bloody swathe of red. _Kill the fallen stop her please kill it END THIS–_

You come to half-balanced on one knee, Valaskjálf’s weight pressed against the floor the only reason you didn’t collapse completely. The hem of that robe is right in front of you now, and looking up reveals a face like cracked porcelain, corrupted veins spreading across the bone-white surface. Sunken eyes, a waning red unlike your own, stare back with the weight of something massive and monstrous, as if the shape clothed in black is a mere illusion. The worst of the howling in your head instantly quiets, snuffed out.

“So few answer my call.” Her voice is a sonorous, powerful thing, and all too human for what looks like a Grimm that found its feet. The runes lining chalk-pale limbs are the same color as a Beowulf’s eyes, older than any written tongue you know of. “And all of them useless, mortal flesh. Except for you.”

The reflex to lash out with your sword is stifled; something has left every muscle paralyzed, save your tongue. “What are you?”

“Do you not remember?” Curiosity flickers through her stiff mask, a twitch that’s there and gone. “I am Salem, still. What name do you carry now, sister?”

Nausea rebounds through your gut, bile burning the inside of your throat, but unseen force wrenches your jaw open, summons an answer you never intended to give. “Raven Branwen.”

“Branwen. That is a name I know.” One of Salem’s hands cups your cheek, cold as frozen steel, nails hard enough to give the scrape of claws against bare skin. “Tell me where I know it from.”

Images rush through your mind in a relentless blur – standing beside Qrow as STRQ was welcomed to Beacon, stealing his flask to keep him from failing another midterm, tearing the cold and formal letter from his hands that announced your mother had finally committed suicide after so many years of trying – and the white-hot flare of pain that answers calls up a scream of protest before Salem’s hand finally falls away, her head tilting slightly, emotion wiped clean from that broken visage with a blink.

“Your brother is Ozpin’s pet crow.” It’s stated as a fact, but the way she utters Ozpin’s name makes it sound like sacrilege, profane and ruinous. “But you are the Maiden of Summer. You are _mine_. How fortuitous.”

 _No._ The attempt to spit the word at her is stopped by your jaw, now locked shut.

Ignoring the almost compulsive twitch in your limbs as you struggle to move, Salem turns just enough to give a beckoning gesture. “Cinder. Join us.”

The woman you saw kneeling comes to her side without a word. Cinder looks human enough, but the half-starved look in golden eyes is a grotesque juxtaposition with her smile, the awe in her expression as she looks at Salem, silent but attentive. You can’t guess her age with a single look – younger than yourself, to be sure, but something had already tarnished that youthful veneer, forced maturity out of scorched earth.

“See what you will become.” Salem’s fingers graze your cheek again, but reach further back, pushing the wild, dark weight of your hair over the opposite shoulder, baring the nape of your neck to the chilled atmosphere of the cave. “Come, sister, let me share my spirit with you.”

Before you can snap that she’s insane, turn and bite her hand until blood breaks through, do anything at all, her palm rests like a marble collar across the back of your neck, and you start to burn. Something is searing through your flesh, the rank and charred odor leaving you reeling, trying not to choke on your own vomit as the world falls away in a black haze, agony sapping away the last fragments of color on the edge of your vision.

In that last conscious moment, you make out the brand in the center of Salem’s palm as she steps away. The eye emblazoned there taunts you like an open wound, and Cinder’s hands are there to catch you when you collapse.

–

She gives you a mask.

It’s hard not to think of what some Faunus wear on first glance, but the Grimm skull shape obscures your face entirely, slits cut at the height for red eyes to peer outward like a Deathstalker’s. Whatever it’s made of is heavier than metal, but feels like bone to the touch, scoured clean of meat and sinew. Salem ordered you to wear the mask around all strangers, and as you discovered during your first attempt to escape the caves, her commands are a law written onto your body, impossible to resist.

The only mercy is that it seems she can only read your thoughts when actually touching you. Of all the names to strip out of memory, Qrow’s was the least damaging. He’s strong enough to take care of himself, especially with Ozpin’s help. It could have been Ruby’s name instead, Summer’s or Yang’s, but if Salem knows anything about the plan for inheritance, she never speaks of it. In fact, you’re banished from the quarry entirely soon enough, compelled to follow in Cinder’s footsteps.

Much as you despise her for being Salem’s willing pawn, Cinder offers a wealth of information with each passing day. You learn about her plans for the White Fang, about warehouses full of stolen Dust, the kingdom maps circled with dozens of different locations, most of them failed cities and settlements long lost to Grimm. She seems unconcerned that you’ll tell anyone else about this, although your tongue is your own – most of the time.

The blackouts are what trouble you more than anything.

More often than not, you wake up somewhere other than where you fell asleep, up to a hundred miles out from civilization, with no explanation for the blood soaking Valaskjálf’s silver blade. On other nights, your gauntlets are caked with raw Dust, volatile enough to scar unprotected flesh, but the worst night of them all was waking up in a nest full of Taijitu, fumbling a way out of the darkness while they hissed in your ear, scales brushing against your body with familiarity rather than hunger. Other Grimm react much the same way now, either ignoring your presence or welcoming it, but nothing stops you from destroying them, so you slay every single monster that crosses your path.

You’re still a huntress, on some days.

For all her joy in marking you as a Maiden, Salem doesn’t seem to care that mastery of Summer’s abilities has completely escaped you. Cinder makes no comment on it either, and it becomes more and more clear that the only thing that matters is what you are, not what you could be capable of doing. A vessel, but not a disposable one, if only because finding the next random link in the chain of inheritance is a madman’s gambit. Cinder is assigned to the task nonetheless, and the hunt for the Fall Maiden leaves her sleepless for days on end, held upright by nothing short of a pure and fanatical fire.

She’s not alone, though. The pair of teenagers Cinder drags back to the lair in Mistral are both on the razor’s edge of desperation, but when fed and bandaged, end up as susceptible to her siren’s song as anyone else. It’s not an ability Salem gave her, as far as you can tell, but the charisma that comes from supreme belief, no matter how twisted the source. Whenever Cinder speaks of glory, the weak make themselves into soldiers, and when she calls for sacrifice, everyone stumbles forward to make themselves the first one on the knife.

Mercury and Emerald never speak to you, whether out of apathy or fear. In turn, you do your best not to speak at all, refusing to let anything slip that hasn’t already been taken from you. Not that there’s a word in edgewise to find after Cinder recruits a man named Torchwick, some two-bit criminal who appears oblivious to your larger purpose – and Salem’s existence entirely – but has a knack for moving Dust and recruiting able hands around Vale. His companion, a girl named Neo, holds a silence even greater than your own, and it’s only after catching her signing in Cinder’s direction that it becomes obvious she can’t speak at all. Whenever you’re in the same room, she stares at you in idle fascination, eyes rotating through colors like a kaleidoscope.

Summer is the only thing that keeps you sane. The temptation to crawl into the nearest bottle is always there – it runs in the family, after all – especially if there was a way for it to make you so insensate no one could pull your strings anymore. Except there’s no controlling the timing when you’re out cold, and there’s always the possibility of liquor loosening your tongue when the wrong ears are listening. So the only salve is dreaming of her and replaying every conversation with Summer that you’ve ever had, clinging to the crimson spark in your chest that was once hers.

You try to make the rose petals appear again, but they never do.

_I love you, Raven. Don’t stay away for so long next time, okay?_

“Raven.” Cinder’s voice is a rude snap back to reality. “Lien for your thoughts?”

The hand sharpening your sword by second nature goes still, its mechanical rhythm broken. “Nothing, really. I’m bored.”

“I suppose it would be boring. You already have everything you need.” Her tone is too warm, creeping like fingers up your back. “I can’t wait to know what it feels like.”

You sneer, not caring if she sees it. “Is that why you’re doing this? For some once-in-a-lifetime power trip?”

“No.” Anger flares in golden eyes; a rare reaction for her. “It’s my birthright.”

“You can’t be born a Maiden.” That much you know to be true, even if the rest was shrouded in lies and half-remembered fairytales. The few times you tried to found out more about what Summer was, the results were nothing more than endless wives’ tales, each one more far-fetched than the next.

“My mother was the last known Fall Maiden.” Cinder says it through clenched teeth, hot and bitter. “But she died in a human riot, and the power…skipped me.”

“Human? Does that mean you’re not one?” There’s a split second flinch she doesn’t quite hide, the echo of old shame. “Oh, you’re a half-breed. I should have guessed from the eyes.”

“A Faunus Maiden is a dangerous thing, or so they say.” She shrugs, although the apathy doesn’t reach her face. “Salem’s promised to restore what’s mine. That’s enough.”

It’s hard not to wonder if Cinder’s mother knew what would come to pass and tried to prevent it, foreseeing the future in the same way Summer glimpsed the arrival of her own death. “So that’s yours. What about the other two?”

Amusement lights up Cinder’s eyes, banishing all deeper feeling. “You really don’t know?”

“Do you ask questions you already know the answers to?” Well, she probably would, but having to keep up this conversation without running Cinder through is difficult as it is.

“You’re old enough. She probably taught some of your classes at Beacon.” Cinder’s laugh is soft, almost mocking. “There’s a reason she’s never left Ozpin’s side.”

Your jaw drops. “I’m not hunting down Glynda fucking Goodwitch.”

“She’ll be the last to be taken, anyway.” Cinder dismisses the concern with a wave; she knows you have no choice in the matter. “I barely had enough Dust to defend myself against her once. I won’t do it again without Fall’s power behind me.”

“Winter’s maiden, then.” There has to be some fatal flaw in all of this, a way to make it all unravel without getting yourself killed. Ruby’s not even thirteen yet, it’s still too early. “Who is she?”

“You can’t feel it?” Now she looks at you with unveiled pity, severing another thread of your patience. “It’s Salem, Raven. She’s the first and only Winter Maiden this world has ever had.”

–

You never see Amber’s face, but you hear her name a hundred times after Cinder stumbles back into the warehouse, held up by Mercury and Emerald on either side. She’s laughing, half-mad on the rush of pain and power, but after she leaves to deliver the news to Salem, no one sees her for days.

When Cinder returns chastised and quiet, you learn that she actually failed, that half of the Maiden’s essence remains locked away in Amber’s body, and that Qrow was the one to stop the transfer halfway through. You’re surprised no one suspects you of passing on information to your brother, but Salem is smart enough never to tell you where Cinder goes when the two of you are split apart. Your mind doesn’t need the details when your body is her puppet, after all.

But every time Cinder walks by you now, different strings are pulled. The guttering, desperate spark inside her always draws your eye as she enters a room, both threat and lure. She feels familiar now, like an old friend, but something in the pit of your stomach recoils whenever Cinder’s eyes glow, never quite igniting like yours can. The voices that begged and demanded for Salem’s death keep whispering in the back of your mind, never loud enough to make out any meaning, but you know who they belong to now: all of the maidens in the seasons that came before you.

Which means Summer’s voice is in the chaotic chorus, somewhere.

You start picking fights with Cinder. It’s stupid, but there has to be some release for all the tension brewing inside you day in and day out, and since you haven’t really tried to kill her – yet – she plays along. Every comment she makes under her breath, wry and sweet as a mockingbird’s call, is like flint to tinder, scraping the edges of your anger until there’s nothing left but a raw, animal rage. It’s a cousin to the same anger that’s burrowed into your blood for decades, quieted at times but never, ever gone. So when you snap, pinning Cinder to the wall with a choke that could have broken her neck with a little more force and she smiles still, the spark in your chest yearns to devour hers, that half-imperfect, broken snare.

When you wake up in her bed the next morning, there’s no hangover to blame it on, but you only make it a few feet away from the room before regret and bile tears everything out of you. Of all the mistakes to make – hell, it doesn’t even rank with the rest, really – it seems that much worse because you had held out for years, never touching anyone since that last night with Summer. It saddles you with a guilt that should have been reserved for a thousand other things, but there’s no one left to apologize to. Saying sorry is irrelevant when the first time isn’t even close to the last, because you’re weak and something inside finally buckled under all this fucking pressure.

“What are you in such a mood for?” Cinder asks one night, exhaustion backlit across her face thanks to the single candle in the room. The power at this particular camp is a mess, and the White Fang grunts running around under Adam’s newly twisted thumb haven’t managed to steal a working generator to fix it yet. “Did staring down Faunus all day somehow manage to tire you out?”

This morning, you found a new scar curving around your knuckles, and can’t help but keep running calloused fingertips over it, again and again. “No, but I was in the dark for a week straight this time. Can’t help trying to figure out what she made me do.”

Cinder’s brow arches high. “Does it really matter? It was going to happen either way.”

“Don’t get started on that ‘fated’ bullshit again.” She talks in absolutes, like all the threads that hold the world together are visible to her eyes. It reminds you of Summer, and associating anything between the two of them makes you sick. “The world is like this because of the choices people make, not some cosmic cat’s cradle controlling everyone.”

“Of all people to be so sure of that.” Cinder says, a low chuckle rumbling in her throat.

Her laughter nearly sets you off, but you can never tell Cinder that a choice is what brought you here in the first place. A whole line of choices, even, stretching back to a moment on your knees when you begged Summer to take care of Yang, knowing someday there would be a price to pay for doing something so awful as abandoning your own daughter. This isn’t about fate – it’s just penance that was long overdue.

“If you know so much, then why don’t I know why we’re doing this, huh?” You spit the question, lashing out at Cinder so it won’t sound like an interrogation. “We need all four Maidens and I’m one of them, but what next? Or is she just going to brand everyone and make us dance on her whim for the rest of eternity?”

“We’re righting an imbalance, Raven.” Standing up from her seat, Cinder approaches your perch in the shadows; she had the only chair, leaving no support but the walls to lean on. “The first Maidens were trapped with a burden they were given no knowledge of. Once this power is in…cooperating hands, there can be justice for it.”

“Justice?” You’ve lost track of how many people she’s murdered, how many more died at the hands of those who follow her orders. “Putting a teenage girl in a coma so you can rip her soul out is justice?”

“It’s nothing compared to how many girls Ozpin has killed, all while masquerading as a righteous man.” Golden eyes narrow, and Cinder presses an inch closer into your personal space. “You can’t even comprehend it. I could strangle some young girl every day for years and never reach his level of bloodshed. What I’ve done can’t even be measured beside it.”

“So we’re just pawns in some immortal pissing contest, except somehow you’re happy about it.” Less happy now that she used to be with Amber out of reach for so long, but that fanatical flame never seems to lose its strength.

She huffs, light and unimpressed. “Immortal pawns. That’s a step above the usual, wouldn’t you say?”

“Maidens have been dying for generations.” You snap; maybe this time she’s really lost it. “We’re not immortal.”

“Not invulnerable, no, but you can live forever.” Cinder shakes her head, baring her teeth. “Isn’t it obvious? How do you think Salem is here now when she was among the first?”

You stare, mute in disbelief. Summer had never said any such thing to you, but it’s possible she was never told. How would someone know unless they’d actually managed to live that long? “Is that the burden?”

“Fixing the world is the burden, Raven.” Irritation set aside, Cinder cups your cheek, daring near kindness. “But so many girls have murdered for a power that their killers can’t even begin to understand. Yet Ozpin continues to let them be lambs to the slaughter, over and over again.”

Four years at Beacon and you had maybe spoken to the man half a dozen times. His interest had always been in Summer, although the reason for that is clear enough now. “Why?”

“Because if he took the power back, the burden would be his again, and this world has unraveled so far that he would likely collapse under its weight.” Cinder’s dark nails bite into your cheek with a familiar sting. “Ozpin’s authority is a farce. If he brought every Maiden together, allowed them to work their will, perhaps things might be salvaged. But every kingdom’s government would be dismantled, scoured of corruption. Do you think they would stand for that? Or would they let four more girls die and try to beat back the tide of darkness themselves, hoping that in the end, they’ll still be rulers in the ruins?”

“The Grimm.” You swallow hard, holding back a shiver. “That’s why you keep summoning them here.”

“With enough of the beasts, no army will match their strength. No technology or Dust can provide a victory. But when they surrender in that final hour, those who survive will be saved. Only then can we start anew, with the world in the proper hands.”

“There’s barely enough of us now.” Almost every city provided an incentive for citizens – human ones, anyway – to have as many children as possible, and yet numbers were slow to grow. “That kind of massacre could finally tip the scales.”

“It’s not our fault the world was knocked out of balance. He threw his shackles in four directions, and this generation may bear the cost of it.” Cinder shrugs, as if dismissing the concerns of an insect instead of humanity itself. Then she smiles, looking you right in the eye. “Do you see it now? That is what you’re meant for. You were always destined to outlive your darling Summer.”

A shroud of red falls over your eyes at the sound of her name, and then Cinder is on the floor beneath you, head hitting the floor with a heavy thud. You loom above her like a beast, wrists and knees pinned so tightly cracking the bones would be easy, just one vicious twist, but Cinder doesn’t even acknowledge the threat, because she knows you can’t kill her. There’s harm you could inflict, even permanently, but the panicked voice in the back of your head – maybe your own, maybe another Maiden’s – insisting that this has been Cinder’s plan all along, that you’re blood-blind and being lead to the slaughter.

“Never say her name again.” You snarl, the faint glow in her eyes outmatched by your own, wreathed in fire. “I’ll tear out your tongue and make you swallow it.”

“I’m sure you would.” Somehow Cinder’s voice remains low and even, like she’s trying to soothe a wounded, cornered wolf. “Because you were already broken, Raven, weren’t you? All Salem did was mark it for the whole world to see.”

“Shut up.” This time you really spit the words, and she accepts the indignity with a brief flutter of eyelashes.

“Take what you need.” Her voice is benediction, offering wine to your lips and daring you to drink. “I’ll help you forget again.”

When you come back to the world hours later, Cinder’s sheets are tangled around your hips and she lays beside you, bloodied and bruised but smiling in her sleep. No matter what you say or do, she martyrs herself with that same smile, and even with her consent, looking down at your battered hands leaves you feeling ill. Copper stains the lines of every nail, a few of them cracked and split, and trying to scrub them off on the sheets accomplishes nothing. The only place to wash up is a bathroom is in another building where everything’s made of concrete and the water heater gave out an age ago, some holdover from a ranger station that had nothing left but skeletons by the time you found it.

Your clothes are in a tangle on the floor, gauntlets half unbuckled, but getting dressed won’t do much good if there’s nowhere to go, no orders carrying you out into the world. Anything else would draw suspicion when all the people here are used to you following in Cinder’s footsteps like a silent automaton, leaving in pristine armor and coming back soaked with gore. You turn back to look at Cinder and she remains lost in peaceful slumber, even with that corrupt, torn spark writhing like a second heartbeat in her chest. Leaning over casts your shadow across Dust-scarred skin, and from this close with all your senses intact, she looks so terribly young.

“Why do you let me do this to you?” It’s foolishly whispered, but you have to know. Is Salem ordering Cinder to bear it, or has she just thrown the two of you together like starved wolves in a cage, without any care to the damage that came of your squabbling?

Black lashes flutter open, and you bite back a curse. Of course she wouldn’t sleep deeply, not in a place where everyone had a blade in their hands. “…Don’t flatter yourself, Raven. You’re nothing compared to her.”

“Is that supposed to be comforting?” You keep your tone acidic; it’s easier that way.

Cinder turns over to face you completely, the thin blanket falling away from her body and exposing the imprints of your teeth. “Half the time Salem calls me ‘Elder Sister’ and smiles, but then she feels what I’m…lacking. It makes me an abomination in her eyes.”

Abomination is a good word for it. “And in your eyes?”

“Well, she’s tried to tear _mine_ out twice already.” Cinder gestures to her face, and when you squint, the faintest scratches are visible, carved out at the very edge of Aura’s limit. “So you’re pleasant company in comparison.”

“How the hell is this worth it to you?” Every inch of her body has been shown to you at some point, and your brand has no twin on Cinder’s flesh. “You’re not even on a leash like me.”

She sighs, propping herself up against the lone pillow on the bed. “I already told you why.”

As if it made a bit of damn sense. “So what? You’ll get the power to heat your fucking coffee without a microwave and the rest of the world is going to want you dead in return. That’s not an equal exchange, Cinder.”

“Salem is the only reason I have a life at all.” You expect Cinder to snap with all the goading, but now she’s calmer than ever. “After my mother died, I was the only Faunus-blooded in a village of humans. Not enough and yet too much, just like now. So I burned my way out and ran.”

It’s tempting to ask how old she was, but it really shouldn’t matter. “And then what, you stumbled into a cave?”

“An old house, actually.” Cinder glances at her nails, thumb scraping away a faint chip in red paint. “That’s where one always finds witches, isn’t it? Out in the forest where only the lost have a chance of discovering them.”

Biting the back of your tongue keeps the wrong question from making its way past your lips. It couldn’t possibly be the same old house when Mistral and Patch were split by a massive, roiling sea. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“She saw the legacy in my eyes, Raven. When I was done weeping, I was told there was no need for tears ever again, if I could listen and obey.” She shrugs, a laugh rattling low in her throat. “All I have left to return to is murder charges, so this works out quite well, honestly.”

No past worth saving, gambling on half a future; isn’t that too fucking familiar? At least you had an actual mother longer than she did. “Doesn’t make you any less of a crazy bitch.”

“Perish the thought.” Cinder mumbles, dismissing your comment as she turns back into the warm cocoon of the sheets.

Like before, she passes into slumber within seconds, back bared to you without fear. You’ve already put your claws in Cinder plenty of times, never enough to scar, and the time to kill her stretches far into the distance. Sleep eludes you, though, chased off by adrenaline and the grave your thoughts keep digging, inch by inch. When you start hearing things on the edge of the silence – things that shouldn’t be there, fractured voices and syllables – you reach over the edge of the bed to find your clothes, fishing out the scroll tucked into one pouch.

This is pure idiocy, texting Taiyang in the middle of the camp when you know Cinder’s been hiring friends who hack systems and tap private lines, but exhausted apathy and old obligations meet at the strangest crossroads. You have to know, to check in and make sure your reason for living still has a heartbeat.

_How are the girls doing?_

It’s early on the island, not even dawn yet, but you watch as Sent becomes Seen at the bottom corner of the screen. There’s no response for a good five minutes, but before the urge to chuck the device across the room becomes an anger-fueled temptation, he starts typing back.

_Fine. How about you?_

_Just checking in._ It’s not an answer, but you can’t really give him one.

Another stretch of digital silence hangs blank across the screen before he sends back: _Ruby got into Beacon. I’m so proud of her._

How could she–flipping to the calendar application, you double-check the time and date, making sure you haven’t lost months this time, a year. Your fingers nearly punch through the glass typing back: _she’s only fifteen._

_Ozpin chose her, Raven. She’s ready._

Like hell she is. You don’t know if this is your brother’s meddling or just Ozpin hedging his bets, but even Summer was seventeen when Beacon accepted her, having some handle on the world. That wasn’t enough experience to save her eye either, and leadership runs in Rose blood just like silver. That old man will put her right on the front line into fire and darkness, dragging three other kids into a fate no one deserves.

_What about Yang?_

_She’s there too. They’ll keep each other safe._ Gray dots pop up as he starts typing again, but it starts and stops a dozen times before the message finally appears. _Raven, you can still come home._

“Fuck you, Tai.” It’s spit under your breath, hot as venom. He doesn’t know the first thing about this, about what you’re giving up to make sure his kids don’t have their souls torn out by the big bad immortal wolf.

The scroll lands back on top of your clothes with a thunk, but there’s a whisper of fabric on the edge of your hearing, and under the curtain masquerading as a door to this concrete cell of a room, a scant sliver of black and white, the familiar divide of a heel. From this angle she can’t quite see you, but you know she was listening, if not for how long. You have to catch her in one move or she’ll be gone, leaving you grasping nothing but illusory shards of glass.

A portal puts you a foot behind Neo and you go straight for her wrists, pinning them against the wall. Getting a knee to the gut stings, but the damage she can dish out with her legs is nothing compared to what she’d do with the sword she was reaching for. Its parasol sheath cracks against her spine as you smash your head down against Neo’s brow, even if the angle makes your neck scream in protest. She’s narrow enough to fit in ten thousand places she shouldn’t be, and thrashes as her Semblance tries to find a hold on reality, but you’re skin-to-skin, fingers wrapped around the band of pale flesh between her sleeves and black gloves. A dozen doubles form and shatter, harmlessly exploding in your face before she knees you again, right between your legs. _That_ hurts, but this isn’t the first time you’ve fought without a shred of clothing, and it probably won’t be the last.

“Are you done?” You growl the words, looking right into oscillating irises.

With her hands locked in place, Neo can’t sign, so she settles for sagging back against the wall and mouthing, _What do you want?_

“For you to stay out of my business.” Who knows how much she passes off to Torchwick, who sells gossip for half a Lien and a pretty smile. “This isn’t the first time I’ve caught you skulking around me, but it’s the last.”

She doesn’t even bother to hide a mocking smile, showing too many glistening teeth. _Or what?_

“Or I’ll burn you alive.” Confusion creases along Neo’s brow, as if that’s not the threat she expected. It proves she doesn’t know what you are, and the fire in you needs something to feed on, new kindling. She’s small enough to break over your knee.

Calling up the Maiden’s flame feels right, that crimson light falling across your vision so much easier than that damned mask. Heat ignites from your palms directly against her skin, and you have to give Neo credit for not immediately buckling. It’s not until the scent of charred meat hits your nose that she starts to struggle again, and you can feel her Aura trying to staunch the flow of power, seal the wounds, but it’s not enough. It never will be unless you allow it.

“All the way to the bones.” You hiss, pressing a white-hot digit into the pulse of her wrist and watching Neo’s throat convulse in a silent scream. “You’ll be just like the ash falling off Torchwick’s cigar. Think he’ll be sad to see you gone?”

 _Stop._ You can barely make out the shape of the word past her pained breathing, but it’s enough. _I’ll stop._

You recall the fire fast as flipping a switch, but a few hungry embers remain between your fingertips, starving for air before finally flickering out. “Was that so hard?”

 _What are you?_ Both eyes are the same color now, dull and scorched gray. _There’s no Dust in your skin._

“Wouldn’t you like to know, little one?” The skin under your fingertips feels like dry paper, shredded and crackling. “But step into my business again and I won’t stop next time.”

 _Whatever._ Defeat is admitted with a sneer, but her hands are limp now, open and unthreatening. _All I saw tonight was you on top of Cinder again._

Acid tightens your throat, but you swallow back the bile. “Is that how you get your rocks off?”

 _Me? How about you?_ The accusation puts a hard weight behind Neo’s gaze. _Every time you call her ‘Summer’. It’s sick. Isn’t she dead?_

Something disconnects inside your head, leaving your vision blacked out for a good minute before you remember to breathe. Disgust outweighs your anger a hundred times over, all turned inward like a nest of snakes slithering through your gut, and for a second, you think about killing Neo anyway, just to make sure she never says those words to anyone again. Except it’s not her fault – it’s you and whatever fucked up delusion takes over in those empty moments when your body is moving but your mind isn’t there. Summer deserves so much better than you panting her name above that half-Maiden husk.

“Get out of here.” You let go of Neo and take a step back, feeling sick.

If she wanted to impale you, now would be the perfect time, but the shudder of pain that wracks her body when she flexes all ten fingers must be more powerful than a need for vengeance. Neo disappears with a sound like a house of mirrors being struck by a hammer, wreathing herself in illusion and out of your sight.

You can’t cry here, but the apologies come out breathless and quick as a chant, over and over until that little piece of Summer left inside your head has to hear it.  As if _I’m sorry_ would ever be close to enough.

–

You were on a train.

It’s taken days to piece together all the different fragments of time, some more coherent than others. But you were on a train, somewhere underground. Vale – Mountain Glenn. It had taken a dozen tries, portaling through dead-end tunnels that hadn’t seen a living soul in decades, but when your feet met solid steel, something had loosened the hold Salem had on your body, just enough to see what was in front of you. Your body was still hers, moving in quick steps through the cars past cowering and arguing members of the White Fang, their speech bleeding into incomprehensible noise against the constant thrum of the engine. Torchwick was here too, a slice of orange in the corner of your vision, but both eyes were locked straight forward, peering through the slits of your mask.

There was fighting, explosions echoing from overhead on the top of the train. Instinct told you they were bombs, but the only thing you could actually see was doors sliding open with your approach before Salem called a portal from your hand. It’s impossible to tell how far you jumped, but you landed in the train again and came face-to-face with Neo. You saw the sword in her hands, ready to drive deep into someone’s stomach. Someone you knew from the pictures Taiyang sent you once in a blue moon, her blonde hair full of sunlight just like his.

Yang was unconscious, and she was about to die.

For a moment, your hands were your own again. With a lead tongue and sealed jaw, the only thing you could do was step forward and ready your sword, watch the terror chasing color from Neo’s eyes as Dust spun in a dozen cylinders through Valaskjálf’s sheath. _Mine_ , you thought again and again, _this is mine too_. It would have been a howl, a roar if you were able, but no matter how bloodthirsty she was, reading silence was one of the things Neo did best. Fire coated silver, red Dust compressed into a razor-sharp blade, and resistant muscle twitched along your back as you leveled it her way. If she had stayed to fight you, the chances would have been up in the air, reflex twisting against the boundaries of Salem’s control.

But she fled, and then so did you.

Five minutes of rebellion costs a week in the black. If you’re punished, by some mercy you don’t remember it, and you recover the important parts of those missing days bit by bit. Torchwick is locked up in one of General Ironwood’s cells, the Grimm that spilled into public Vale streets were all destroyed, and yet Cinder is in a better mood than ever. You almost never see her now, not when she’s traipsing around Beacon pretending to be a Haven senior – courtesy of hacked school records and Emerald tearing into the mind of a particularly susceptible teacher – and Adam avoids you just like Neo, even if his reasons are different. Something about your mask unsettles him, probably because he’s never seen you take it off.

Except when Salem isn’t pulling your strings, you’re alone in the compound, and it gives you the first chance you’ve had in years to message Qrow.

He’s angry and drunk – some things never change – but agrees to meet you out in the farthest reaches of Vale, where Grimm-ridden forests and fragile cliffs make travel impossible for any but the most experienced hunters. You get there first, early enough to make sure your brother hadn’t found his wits and set a trap to keep you in place, but there’s nothing waiting but wasteland until Qrow breaks through a copse of trees two hours late, his scythe collapsing back into itself. The recoil when he sees you is instantaneous, and one hand goes right for the flask locked in place on his belt.

“What the fuck are you wearing?” Scarred fingers gesture up to his own face, right between dulled red eyes. “You look like a White Fang reject.”

The mask is like a second skin; you hadn’t even thought about removing it until he says something. You tug it off, face suddenly exposed to the wind whipping up over the cliffs, and swallow a wince at the strength of the sunlight from overhead. “Good to see you too, Qrow.”

“For a second I thought some Ursa might have slashed off your face, gave you enough scars to make you worry about vanity or something.” Amber whiskey hangs heavy on his breath, and you’re not sure if you want to knock the flask out of Qrow’s hand or steal it for yourself. “It’s been years, Raven. What gives?”

“Don’t pretend like you missed me.” Both of you know better to admit that. “We went different ways for a reason.”

He sneers, shaking his head like a drenched dog. “You never gave a fucking reason. I’ve spent fifteen years talking around you every time someone asks me about the old days, or when one of the kids wanted a damn bedtime story. Would have thought you were dead if you didn’t crawl up Tai’s ass looking for news every once in awhile.”

“Tell me why Ruby and Yang were in Mountain Glenn.” Qrow can curse you out all he wants, but that fact is undeniable. You had seen camera footage from the train crash in the city, watched Ruby and her team limping out of the rubble. “Has Ozpin lost his fucking mind? Who sends kids their age into a Grimm-infested tomb? That’s third year shit, at the earliest.”

Never mind the fact that the White Fang and Neo had been ready to slit throats at the drop of a hat; he can’t know that you saw that much.

“Oh, so _that’s_ what this is about.” His eyes only roll halfway before he gives up on the gesture. “Guess what, Raven? You don’t get to play the mom after you ditch your own kid on someone’s doorstep. They were there to be huntresses, just like Summer.”

You can’t even stand to hear him say her name, not drenched in liquor and falling out of Qrow’s mouth like spittle. “Just like Summer? _Dead_ like Summer?”

“Ruby’s a prodigy! I taught her myself.” Even through an inebriated haze, Qrow sounds proud of himself. “And she definitely got her mother’s temperament, because your girl hates my guts. Yang’s got no sense of humor.”

Reflexively, you doubt that, but there’s no real way to know when the first time you’d seen Yang since the cradle was her passed out on the floor of a train about to be impaled. “But you still talk to her.”

“Of course I still talk to her. She’s my fucking niece.” Qrow growls.

“Then where were you when she was on a bomb-laden train hurtling towards the city?” You take one long stride closer, enough to get up in his face. “Because I found her about to get run through, and you weren’t anywhere to be found.”

“The train? How were you–” He scoffs, capping his flask. “How the hell did you end up there?”

“How do you think, little brother?” Maybe the difference was only five minutes, but it had felt like fifty years growing up together, born twins but always hurtling off to destruction in opposite directions. “Should I draw you a map from point A to point B, or are you sober enough to remember what my Semblance is?”

Caution creeps into Qrow’s stare, but there’s too much truth in your words for him to pluck out what doesn’t fit. “Right place at the right time, huh? Lucky girl.”

“You tell Yang that I saved her once, but she shouldn’t expect that kindness again.” She can’t rely on you; no one can with the promise you made to Summer. “And if you’re not there protecting those kids, none of them should be in a place like Mountain Glenn. Does Tai even know?”

“He knows a version of the story.” His voice drops low and soft. “Why don’t you see him, Raven? Give him some peace of mind for once.”

The worst part is that it might give you some peace of mind too, but if you stop now, everything will spill out of you like a sickness. You’d tell Taiyang everything – and it would come back to kill him. “You ran out on Tai a hundred times. Don’t give me a lecture about leaving him behind.”

Qrow suddenly jabs two fingers against your chest, teeth bared. “Fuck you, Raven. Why couldn’t you keep your legs closed instead of having a kid with someone you don’t give a rat’s ass about? Why didn’t you just get rid of her?”

“She was supposed to keep me there!” It comes out choked, a scream building in your throat and twisting into something raw with hatred. “I dreaded every fucking second of it, Qrow, but I thought when Yang was born, it would change. I was supposed to feel something.”

“Guess it runs in the family, huh?” Branwen blood is poison; both of you are poison. “Mom didn’t want to stick around for us either.”

“I wouldn’t have been a good mother.” You didn’t even know how to try, not with that void in the place of your heart, hungry to devour everything around it. “Summer did better. I knew she would.”

“You just told me you saved Yang’s life, Raven. You could have done more. We could have all fucking figured it out.”

“Well, it’s never happening again.” Your fingers tighten around the edge of your mask, the urge to pull it back on almost overwhelming. Every moment spent here is another moment Salem could take you over, and she knows more about what Qrow does than you do. “Keep the girls out of your bullshit with Ozpin. I know he’s more than a headmaster, and you haven’t been a real teacher since the girls were learning to walk.”

Real anger takes over his face now, turns it to sharp and fractured edges. “Who told you? Even Tai doesn’t know what I do.”

“You think you’re the only one who watches from a distance?” You see one of his hands clench into a fist and can’t help but smile; this is familiar, and you missed it. “Maybe if you weren’t spying on everyone else, you could guard your back better.”

Qrow’s sucker punch goes right into the center of your stomach, forcing the air right up and out of your lungs. Breathing past the full-body ache, you snap your elbow forward into his nose, feeling it break on impact, the surge of his Aura trying to stop the fresh gush of blood and slow it to a trickle. Bashing your mask into Qrow’s face leaves him dazed, but he hooks one of your legs, knee twisting so sharply that you both tumble to the ground, newly emptied hands grasping for a hold after his flask clips your shoulder. He spits right in your face, but the distraction doesn’t last long when you jam one leg right up between his, angled hard against giving flesh.

“Bitch–” Qrow snarls, and you let him get in two solid punches for the dirty play before blood fills your mouth, bringing an urge to win with it.

This isn’t the first time you’ve done this, or the tenth, the hundredth. Before Summer and Tai, before Beacon, you and Qrow fought with anyone you could, and when the village bar and easy targets ran dry, there was only each other. Your brother was the only one that understood your rage, always ready to boil over, even if he kept trying to drown his own with moonshine and whiskey. It needed a way to escape through your skin, draining from split knuckles, spit out between loose teeth and ragged threads of Aura, so you both learned to soak up the hits, tearing the uncivilized pieces out of each other until it was easier to breathe, until it didn’t feel like you were only pretending to be human.

Except you are. That’s why your punches land harder than his now, why Qrow’s face is a bloody mess and you’re barely starting to hurt. Maiden’s fire yearns to jump to your fingertips, finish this off, but then he stops, head lolling back against red-stained earth. Every ragged breath summons little crimson bubbles to the bent angle of his nose and dyes the line of his mouth, but when you stagger to your feet and offer a hand, Qrow doesn’t take it. He rolls over on his side, coughing up a string of dripping red before standing up under his own power.

Neither of you had ever reached for your weapons; that was the only rule from the start, a signal of betrayal if it was broken.

“Picked up some new tricks, huh?” Qrow bends over, feeling by touch for his flask, and the words strain to leave his throat. “Knew something had changed about you, Raven. ‘Cause the sister I know would have come back for Summer’s funeral no matter what unless somethin’ stopped her.”

You almost tell him. Some infinitesimally small spark of hope clings to the thought that he might be able to help you fix this, but this is your grave to dig, not his. “Good seeing you, brother.”

“Yeah.” He washes out his bloodied mouth with what’s left of the whiskey and winces, although that seems to be more from the sight of the empty flask instead of pain. “Don’t be a stranger.”

–

For the first time in seventeen years, you dream about Yang.

At the foot of a broken tower, you whisper promises to her while the world plays out around you in splinters of red, black, and burning, blinding gold. Rage bleeds through her eyes until they match your own  – like mother, like daughter – and you wake up being strangled in the dark. Except the attacker is no one but yourself, the nightmarish writhing that started to afflict you every so often after that day on the train. Maybe the power Salem has over you is corrupted, maybe it’s pushing deeper into your veins, but regardless of the reason, dread hunts your every waking moment.

Cinder is close; she’s too close to having what she wants.

You know because Salem orders you to stay away from the coming battle, condemning you to idleness even as the White Fang move to strike, bringing a wave of Grimm in their wake. You know from the hacked feeds that play across screens in the compound at all hours, watching Cinder twist the Vytal Tournament into her own private source of entertainment, and you have to hold your tongue every time Ruby and Yang appear on a monitor. You’ve learned the names of the others on their team too, and one stands out to you, because Adam has uttered it in dark longing too many times to count, and you wonder if that’s the real reason he’s gone along with all this – to take back what’s his.

But despite her orders, Salem is thoroughly distracted by the reckoning to come, and when you raise your hand to open a portal, it responds without resistance. Almost no resistance, anyway. There’s a sustained throbbing in the back of your skull where the brand lays, but the pain is minimal in comparison to so much else that you’ve endured. So you look through the portal, watch Beacon being torn to pieces in the chaos, and somehow manage to walk through. The Grimm lumber past you without complaint, drawn to a power far greater than your own that sleeps inside the mountain. When it breaks through, everyone fighting here will lose.

Cinder hasn’t found Amber yet, you think, but she will. And you know what comes next.

At least you thought so, time passing in a sluggish haze around you until you see a girl in a crimson cloak running up the side of the same tower that filled your dreams, carried by a line of white glyphs that stretch up towards the sky. If not for the scythe, you could have mistaken her for her mother – Summer’s cloak was red, once upon a time in that old house.

“Ruby.” You gasp her name, as if it will be heard from down on this shattered ground. She’s running towards Cinder, towards her own death. “Stop!”

Your shout dies on the wind, drowned out by gunfire and the roar of Grimm as a hundred young hunters desperately try and push back the tide. She doesn’t even know who you are, she wouldn’t know your voice, but you can hear the fight at the top of the tower, just out of view. Raising your hand to call a portal, there’s a storm of Aura pushing back, so much static that your Semblance might just tear through someone, or project you halfway through the debris, ripping your body from the inside out when everything is made solid at once. You have to risk it, you have to–

Ruby screams.

A halo of silver explodes outwards from the top of the tower, so bright you can see nothing else, seared through your eyes to the back of your skull. The guttering spark you always feel from Cinder’s presence goes still, frozen but not snuffed out, and the distant beat of dragon’s wings fades away. Everything is so silent for a moment that you wonder if you’ve just been locked in the same purgatory, but you’re only stunned with the realization that it’s now or never. Salem’s plan has just ground to a halt, and the second she knows that, you’ll be the only weapon left in her arsenal. The second she reads your mind, she’ll see Ruby, and draw the line from one set of silver eyes to the other.

There has to be a way out.

Maybe Tai will help cut the brand off your neck. If that’s not enough, you can fall on your sword, and in that final moment you’ll think of Summer, not Ruby. The maiden’s curse will rebound off her in death, seeking some other family to torment, and Salem will be sent on another wild hunt across the continent. You can delay the inevitable if Ruby’s not ready, if Yang doesn’t make it.

Turning towards the coast, the path to Patch calls like the tension of a compass needle, always drawing wanderers back the right way. When you reach the edge of the water, you’ll take a portal across, just as you’ve done a hundred times before.

But for the first time, you can stop to see Summer’s grave.

“I’m coming home.” You whisper, and break into a run.

–


End file.
